


Resurgam

by pterodactylichexameter



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, F/M, Smut, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9548282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactylichexameter/pseuds/pterodactylichexameter
Summary: Azriel returns from a mission after he's been gone for a month and Mor is waiting for him, as always, to welcome him home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally started for Moriel Smut Week (Wing Kink) but I.. only just finished it. 
> 
> "Resurgam" is Latin for "I will rise again" (just ignore the sexual undertones, people, carry on, carry on)

When Azriel winnows into their house for the first time in weeks, trying to mask how tired he is, how much the weight of his mission is pulling on him, it doesn’t take Mor two blinks to see right through him. She jumps up from the table, heart hammering suddenly in her chest with the relief flooding through her at seeing him in person for the first time in almost a month. It’s never pleasant, him having to leave like this, entirely alone for days, weeks, but it’s been… a particularly hard time.

Usually they can at least alternate when they’re gone so someone is always there, available for whatever the other needs. But Rhys had asked her to take a sudden trip to the Court of Nightmares and she’d panicked. She knows she doesn’t  _ have _ to go. That if she told Rhys, he would send someone else, would go himself, but she goes anyway.

And it’s bad. It’s always been bad, difficult to deal with, shutting part of herself down like that, to crush part of the lightness in her at facing her family, her father. But it’s worse when her mate isn’t waiting for her back in Velaris. Or if he doesn’t go with her to the Court of Nightmares at all.

No one forces her to go. It’s her job. It’s not as if she doesn’t know it’s going to take something out of her the moment she steps through those great stone doors.  But usually Azriel is there to welcome her back when she’s done. She doesn’t have to hide with him, pretend like she’s okay with herself when she isn’t. He understands deeply enough that she doesn’t even have to say anything. Can winnow back and he’ll already have her favorite food prepared, have a bath drawn and waiting for her, still hot enough to steam up the tile walls in the bathing room. 

But this time, she’d come home to an empty house, the ache of Azriel gone ringing hollow in her tight stomach. The darkness of being in that… that  _ place _ piling on top of the uncertainty of having him gone in the first place?  The empty space beside her in that huge bed only has her curling in on herself more, hiding her pains when he’s gone like this. 

And it had built, on and on over itself, as she’d tried to swallow it, to the point where she’d shoved it all aside. Had slapped on a polite smile and moved on, refusing to deal with it. She knows it’s not healthy. She can deal with one at a time. Can handle going to the Court of Nightmares as long as she has the reassurance that her mate is safe, that he’s not shoving down his own burdens. Can handle Azriel leaving if that means she knows she can be ready for him when he returns. Can be there, through the bond at a moment’s notice if he sends even just a sliver of a request.

So when she sees him standing there, brushing snow from his black hair, kicking off the bits clinging to his shoes, Mor barely registers the choked cry coming from her own mouth, can’t resist stumbling out of her chair, not even cognizant enough to think to winnow, practically throwing herself across the room and into him.

Azriel stumbles with a slight grunt of surprise, catching her as she wraps her arms around him, face buried in the front of the fur lined cloak dusted with quickly-melting snow. She doesn’t even care that he’s dripping bits of it all over the floor of the front hall, heart sputtering in her chest at her cheek pressed into the coldness still seeping into his clothes.

Something squeezes her ribcage at the realization that she hadn’t even known he would be anywhere cold to begin with. Only that he was gone. It strikes her that she doesn’t realize how much they have to close the bond when he’s gone. She gets and pieces, the occasional flicker. Knows that the silence is for her own safety. For his. But she hadn’t even felt the cold gnawing at his bones, any icy wind picking through the seams of his clothes. 

“This is quite the welcome,” he murmurs, arms coming up around her.

She doesn’t respond at first, drinking in the low hum of his voice in his chest, the way she can feel it faintly, even through all his layers.  All the worry that had been in her, the furious anxiety at having him gone, eating away at her empty gut she’d barely been able to force food into, sending her heart racing in her chest at the worst times, for no reason at all. 

Mor just breathes him in, drawing in the scent of his worn leathers, the cold snow stuck in the fur lining of his hood, woodsmoke, the scent of  _ him _ , and underneath all of that, faint, the metallic tang of blood.  She’s almost afraid that if she starts talking, she’ll start crying, give herself away with all that she’s been holding back from passing through the bond in an effort to keep him focused on his mission.

He doesn’t need to say that he’s missed her. She already knows. 

“If you said you were coming, I would have drawn you a bath,” she murmurs into his chest, rising on her toes to bury her nose in his neck, breathing in his cold skin. His hands tighten on her back and she feels him nuzzle down, icy cheek pressed against hers. 

He doesn’t bother telling her that she doesn’t have to do that for him. That she doesn’t need to take care of him. They’re beyond that now. 

“I just wanted to be back,” he says, close enough that she can feel his breath against her ear.  Having him here, though, that only eases part of the tension that’s been building in her since his departure. The bond is still habitually closed tight between them.  And just that, that it’s so instinctive to have it shut this much, not even trickling through enough that she could even sense his  _ arrival _ , something that would otherwise be second nature between them, it makes her throat so tight she has to swallow for a moment to find her words.

“How are you?” she murmurs, propping her chin on his chest to look up at him, winding her arms under his cloak, inside the heat he’s radiating beneath, fingers catching over the dips and scratches and straps of his leathers. Through his back she can feel the steady expanse of his breathing, wants to just hold him, let herself fully register that he’s back and he at least looks all in one piece. 

She doesn’t mean her question to be the surface-level greeting that requires a knee-jerk answer, and he knows it.  He pauses, studies her face, and she can  _ see _ the walls rising in his eyes as he looks down at her, brow slightly furrowed. “It was too long. I already reported back to Rhys.” 

She tries to hold back the flash of pain in her eyes at that. He usually waits to speak to Rhys until after he’s seen her first. He gets out what he needs to with her before he closes himself off to what he’s had to deal with.

It must have been… especially bad if he won’t even tell her about it. If he’s this worn out. 

She runs her eyes over the shadows resting blotchy under his eyes, the wan pallor of his skin.  She tries not to think about how long it must have been since he’s smiled.

“What can I do?” she just murmurs, biting back the ache in her throat at her own worries. This is about him tonight, not her.  He’s been gone for so long and she wants to spill out everything she’s been feeling, wants the cathartic release that is talking everything out with her mate.  “Tell me what I can do for you, Azriel.” 

He just hums something low in his throat, lips pressing together as he studies her, fingers playing with the ends of her hair where it’s hanging down her back.  “A bath would be nice,” he murmurs, and when she lifts her fingers to his cheek, she finds his skin still cold to the touch.  She wonders how long it’s been since he’s been truly warm. If he was in the same place for the whole month. If he was in the Winter Court or perhaps even just the higher reaches of Fall. 

They don’t speak much. Never really speak much in the hours he first returns, letting each other savor in the other’s presence, relish in the fact that they’re together again. That they can let the bond ease back open for the time being… until they have to close it again. Those moments always come far too soon but now isn’t the time to think of that. 

She starts to draw away, to pull back from the embrace of his arms to draw him up to their bathing room upstairs. In another instance, she might winnow, but at times like these, they usually leave set their magic aside. It feels more real without it. But before she can pull entirely away, he’s catching her wrist, gliding forward and cupping her cheek.

Her breath catches in her throat for a different reason this time, because then his lips are on hers and it’s been so long that she’d almost forgotten. She’s been missing him for so long, imagining the weight of him over her, the cool darkness of his wing cocooning them in bed together, the feel of his hands and lips, that the sudden culmination of her wanting has her frozen. 

Azriel takes his time with her, he always has and he always will. Their kiss is an ode to that slow, strikingly deep longing between them. It’s only a gentle press of his lips, drawing back slightly, just a breath’s worth before he’s sidling in closer to her, lips moving more firmly against hers as she responds, hand on her cheek slipping back into her hair, cradling her head against his.

By the time they’re pulling back, blinking, her heart has managed to stumble back into motion, all too quick now, and the air feels heavy around them. 

“I did miss you,” he murmurs against her mouth. In the midst of her kiss, his hand at her wrist had traveled down, lacing their fingers together, guiding their hands together between their chests.  She can feel the firm, reassuring pound of his heart through his leathers and the bond feels ever so slightly parted, a crack that she can hear the barest whispers of feeling through. The edges of his gauntlets, leather worn smooth with use, rub against her fingers and with a sudden urgency, she wants them gone. Wants him out of these damn leathers. Wants Azriel the spymaster gone and Azriel her mate back.

Another smaller part of her wonders if one day, one of them will come back and the bond will never open back again, so used to being closed and shut down. 

“I missed you too,” she whispers, offering him a smile. He doesn’t quite return it, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, the barest upturn to the corner of his mouth that has her worry easing ever so slightly. It’s a start.

Sometimes it takes longer than usual to ease him back into himself. To guide what he’s feeling out of him before he bottles it up and throws it in whatever dark corner of himself he won’t let her see. Because she knows those corners exist. And she knows they always will.

But now she just kisses him again, once, for reassurance that he’s okay, that this is okay between them, that he’ll tell her when he wants to and she won’t force it if he doesn’t want to address it now. 

She manages to pull him away this time, hand in hand as he lets her guide him upstairs, into the bathing room where she sets about undressing him, flicking her hand to get the bath started. 

They’re entirely silent as she works his clothes off one layer at a time. He stands still for her, occasionally helping but mostly letting her do the work for him.  It’s enough of a routine that they don’t have to talk about it, can just fall into the motions as she folds his cloak a few times, sets it over the back of the chair. Azriel has enough height on her that she has to lean up a little to start on the thick cord lacing down the front of his leathers, but it’s a reassuring rhythm, picking out the knot, the resistance as she pulls it loose, farther and farther down his chest. 

Mor can feel him watching her, feels the slow ease of his shadows around them, drifting through the room like smokey fog, mixing with the steam of the hot water rising off the slowly filling tub.  They send goosebumps rising on her arms when they brush her skin, gently caressing through her hair where he can’t.  The bond opens ever so slightly farther, parting when she peels away the two halves of his jacket.

His gauntlets next, and he turns his hands over for her, palms upturned one at a time so she can undo the fastenings at his wrists, setting those aside before she can strip away his outer layer. She laughs a little, the barest huff of an amused smile when part of the leather gets caught in her hair and he helps untangle her.

He has to pull his plain shirt over his head himself, baring the strong slopes of his torso to her, and she can’t help running a quick eye over his skin, making sure there aren’t any marks, any new scars she doesn’t recognize. 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs at her appraisal, catching her hand and she almost forgets that he can read her hesitations on her face, that he knows that her nerves show in the way she chews on her lip, brows slightly drawn. 

“You’re not always fine,” she insists, trying to force herself to calm down.  _ She’s _ the one who’s supposed to be comforting him, not the other way around.

He can’t argue with that, so he stays quiet and she draws in a slow breath, eyes flicking up to his. The bond is open enough that he feels the rising anxiety that she’s been trying to cover up in the weeks he’s been gone. 

A frown pulls at his lips. “Mor--” 

She snaps away, swallowing and burying what he’s only just gotten a sense of.  She gently presses her hands against his stomach until he falls back, perches on the edge of the basin, eyes fastened to her as she kneels down, legs tucked under her to start on his boots. They’ve left little puddles of melting snow still clinging to his shoes on the tile beneath them and she can smell pine sap, as if he’s been traipsing around a forest. 

She doesn’t want them to argue, not with him just back. Not even that they would fight exactly. A disagreement, a rift between them. He’ll understand when it finally does come out what she’s been dealing with. But he won’t like it and he’ll frown. That line will appear between his brows and he’ll stroke the back of her hand with his thumb.

“Morrigan,” he says again, firmer this time, and sure enough, he stills her hands before she’s even got the first of the fastenings undone on the inner stretch of his calf.  “Mor,” he murmurs, voice low, and she can’t resist him, not Azriel, not her mate. He pulls her up gently so she’s kneeling between his legs.

Behind him, the sound of the water pouring out of the faucet seems deafening. 

“Did you have to go?”

She opens her mouth to respond but can’t find the words, eyes darting away from his.

“Did you go to the Court of Nightmares while I was gone?” he tries again, the specificity making her swallow hard, tense, try to breathe back the panic in her chest, the knee-jerk reaction to the name of that place. 

And the fact that he can see through her this easily, that the bond is still warming, melting between them like it’s been frozen for so long, a glacier in the dead dark of winter that’s dripping in the heat of the spring sun,  _ that _ has her struggling harder to piece herself back together for him. She was  _ going _ to tell him of course.  Just not so soon. Not when he’s still struggling to deal with his own demons.

“I had to,” she says, firmly, because if she says it like that, it makes it easier to bear.  If she tells herself there was no other option, it means she’s doing the best she can. That she didn’t have to make that choice. 

“How long ago?” He knows the implications of returning. What it does to her to go back there. Alone. Returning to an empty house and the bond shut down. 

“Two weeks.” 

Azriel rarely curses, but he does then.  When she doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t add any details, he just draws her in, giving a light pull on her hand until she gives in and lets him wrap his arms around her. 

_ She should be doing this for him _ , her mind screams at her but she shoves it down, forehead pressed into his bare shoulder. It feels better like this, better than their hug downstairs when he’d still been in all his gear. She can feel the heat of his skin under her cheek, can breathe in the vanilla and woodsmoke scent of him properly now, the calming combination of his hand smoothing down her back in long, slow strokes.

Without the cloak and his flying leathers,this feels more like  _ them _ , his bare skin, the tattoos spreading over his shoulders bare before her. There’s no facade to uphold with her kneeling in front of him like this, his wings shifting into place around them, legs on either side of her. 

It doesn’t take as long as it usually does for her to start talking. “It wasn’t… as bad as it could’ve been.” She tilts her head slightly, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eye where he’s watching her, one of their hands still laced together between their chests.

The steady rhythm of his heart brings her breathing back into check and he doesn’t say that she should’ve told him. Doesn’t chastise her for keeping this hidden, even just for this long. 

“I hate seeing him though,” she says, even though he already knows that. She doesn’t have to specify that she’s talking about her father.  “He knows better than to say anything direct, but... He told me though that-” she  pauses, breath hitching, then forces the rest of the sentence out. “That all whores get what they deserve in the end.” 

Even Az stiffens at that. A male who’d stood in the face of countless horrors, tortures, guts spilling across the floor by his own blade, and he can’t keep his disgust hidden at a single messy secondhand sentence.

Out in the open, the words feel different, more vile. They’d filtered through her mind these past few weeks like a poison. Some days were worse than others. Both Rhys and Feyre had come to her in the few days following her return. Rhys with an open ear. Feyre with a comforting shoulder and more than enough chocolate. But she hadn’t told them what her own father had said.  Hadn’t been able to speak the words at all. Even hint at their existence.

It’s easy to spill secrets to Azriel. Even before they’d figured everything out, they’d shared things with each other neither of them had told anyone else in all their centuries alive. Az guards his words with stern darkness and tight-lipped graciousness.  He guards what she tells him even more secretly than his own.

“There will be a day, Morrigan,” Azriel says, voice deadly calm, certain in a way that has chills running down her spine. “That your father will be at the end of my blade.” She swallows at the firm decisiveness in his voice. “And the last thing he ever has the decency to think will be all the mistakes he’s made in his life. I don’t care if takes hours. If it takes days, years. He’ll die knowing everything he’s done to you. And knowing he will  _ never _ have your forgiveness.” 

Mor stares at him for a long, unblinking moment. She can feel the cold fury in him, tempered and controlled how he wills it, but snarling,  _ begging _ to be free.  She knows there is a future where he releases that rage, where he’ll welcome it and walk, unblinking, into the beautiful and chaotic terror he’d wreck upon the world. He wouldn’t touch her father without her permission.  And the moment she says she’s ready… To have that threat gone from her life… Azriel would be the one to do it. Truth-Teller would pry her father’s life from his chest. 

“There will be a day,” she echoes faintly, if adamantly.

He holds her gaze for a moment longer, studying her face, looking into her eyes, as if trying to find any more hesitations, more problems of what she’d been through while he’d been away. 

She glances aside, to the water behind him. “We should get in,” she murmurs, nodding back to the tub, nearly full. 

He doesn’t turn around, still watching her, giving a small grunt of agreement.

“Az,” she murmurs, pulling slightly at his hand clasped between them, bidding him stand so she can finish undressing him. 

But he just reaches back, switching the faucets off, the ends of his wings trailing in the clear water, and holds her there, between his legs. And without saying anything, he releases her hand, only to find the hem of her shirt, pulling it up until she acquiesces, lifting her arms to help him. 

She’d only been wearing a casual shirt and loose pair of pants she usually sleeps in.  _ His _ shirt. Usually she keeps out of his wardrobe unless it’s just more convenient to slip on his discarded shirt in the morning instead of looking for a fresh one of her own, but when he’s gone… There’s something comforting in being wrapped in his scent, however faint. Have the knowledge that she shares something like that, even as thinly connected as wearing the same clothing is. It’s the small things that keep her mindful and less heartsick and worried while he was gone. 

Instead of comforting herself in the wrap of his arms and his wings around her, she could calm herself in the softness of his shirt, brew the tea he drinks. It isn’t the blend she prefers, but if she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of it, she could put herself distinctly in her memories of slow mornings where she’d wrap herself around him, leaning over his shoulder to kiss his cheek as he sat at the table with a steaming mug of that tea. 

But now, as he helps her off with her shirt, with the slight, thin garment around her breasts, leaving her upper half bare, his eyes slid to hers again, hands smoothing down her sides.  It’s harder and harder to hide with their clothes stripped away. It’s easier to address the problems she’d been dealing with. Easier to take comfort in him and know that he was doing the same. 

“What happened?” she asks, brow furrowing, worry leaking through her words.  He has to know that they’re not done talking about this. That they’d probably never be done talking about this, dealing with things like this, for the rest of their lives.  “Azriel, where were you?”

She sees him swallow, and he lets out a heavy breath, leaning forwards instead of answering, resting his forehead against the bend of her shoulder, arms draped loosely around her. She looks down at him with her heart clenching in sympathy, anxiety that he’s still holding something back from her, reaches up to stroke through the hair at the nape of his neck, reassuring herself that he’s at least made it back in one piece physically. 

Of all people though, she knows that some of the worst wounds are anything but visible.

“Let’s get in first?” he suggests, murmurs and presses a kiss to her collar bone. 

She just nods, gives a quiet agreement, and eases up, one leg at a time. 

He looks up at her, hands still resting on her waist, eyes reverent, calm even the discomfort still roiling about inside him.  Pausing there, she cards her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. It’s still slightly cold and damp with melting snow. 

If she could, she’d take away his pain, bear it herself. She knows he’d never let her take his suffering as her own, and that’s why she wants to. Just to lift some of the burdens that tug at him ceaselessly. Her own struggles, the darker days, they come in waves, drawing back only to pound into her again, sloshing briny water in her eyes, filling her ears until she can’t breathe, can’t think. Azriel’s… his is the undertow. She can feel it sometimes through the bond, the constant dark tug at the deepest parts of him, overwhelming from beneath the surface. It creeps up, latches shifting fingers into his heart and lungs and the worst part of it is that sometimes she can feel it even through the bond and he won’t so much as blink. He doesn’t even notice its presence and those are the thoughts she knows he’s stuck with when he’s away. When she can’t remind him of the good he has in him.

So she lingers now, fingers stroking through his hair, searching his hazel eyes, draws out the softness in him even as she banishes the darkness. 

Eventually his hands descend, loosening the tie at the front of her soft pants and pushing them over her hips with her underwear. She steps out of them, pulls her socks off one at a time, then drags him up, standing in the shelter of his body to pull his belt open, loosen the laces at the front of his trousers enough to push them down too. 

Azriel helps her into the tub first and she lets out a whoosh of breath at the heat of the water, the way it seems to swallow her. The water sloshes, rising when he follows her in after, noise falling out from deep in his throat as he lowers his wings down into its soothing warmth.

Once they’re settled, maneuvering limbs and wings into place, they wind up settled against one wall, Azriel’s wings extended around the edges of the basin, curving around from his back as he settles them into the heat to soak. She scoots up to rest half in his lap, head against his shoulder, their legs tangled together under the water, and his arm around her, palm splayed on her bare hip. 

The only sound that Mor can hear between the gentle lap of the calming water against the side of the tub is Azriel’s heart, steady through his chest, the faint sound he makes in his throat when she turns her head slightly, kissing the stretch of his collar bone.

The familiar weight of his arm around her, the comfort of just being close to him in the relaxing warmth of a bath would have her eyes growing heavy, but the anxiety is still there in him, the unsettled shift of his mind.

“Azriel-” she starts but he shifts, taking her hand in his, lacing their fingers together over his stomach.

“We can talk tomorrow,” he murmurs quickly, kissing her forehead, a quick reassurance that has her blinking up at him. 

She stares at him for a moment, wants to urge him a little, while the wound is still fresh, so it won’t scar when it heals, but there’s also a contentment in him. His shoulders are still tight, but his mouth isn’t such a firm line anymore, more relaxed, and his eyes are almost half-lidded, like he could drift off right here, the heat of the water and her body against him. 

“Tomorrow,” she affirms, voice set. There’ll be no pushing it back any further after they’ve both slept on it. She understands though, that he doesn’t want to address anything now. That he just wants to have a single night of trying to forget about it, to finally relax and not think about whatever it is he’s done.

As if in agreement, Azriel brings the hands they have laced together out of the water, kisses her fingers and lingering there, against her skin.

Together, steam billowing about the room, they manage to lazily wash each other, indulgently slow between kisses.  Between the two of them, baths are never an erotic experience, only an intimate one, a time when nothing else exists outside of them. 

There’d been one evening when Rhys had come banging on the door, insisting that he needed Az for an emergency mission to run.  Half asleep in water she’d kept reheating so they wouldn’t have to move away from each other, Mor had thrown a sleepy curse at her cousin, leaning farther back into the shelter of Azriel’s body. Az had only groaned, fingers digging deeper into her shoulders where he was working out the knots in her muscles after a long day.

Rhys had learned his lesson then, after Mor had snarled unspeakable curses at him, Azriel just looking on with one brow raised as she’d growled, heaving herself out of the water and only barely managing to throw a towel around herself before throwing open the door and telling him exactly what she’d do if he interrupted them again. 

Since then, they’ve been entirely undisturbed.

Mor traces lazy patterns along his bare skin as they sit up, facing each other so he can drag a soft cloth over her shoulders, her arms, huffing a slight laugh when she wiggles a little under his touch when it skates over her side. His hands linger on her breasts, leaning forward to nuzzle a soft kiss just under her jaw when his thumbs catch over her nipples. 

But just as she leans into his touch, can’t help but want more, the cloth drags down over her stomach and around to her back.

She takes her time with him, avoiding his wings entirely as they sit gently in the water, occasionally stirring if she pauses to rub deeper into his shoulders, his upper arms. Gradually, the content silence and warm intimacy of the room leaks the tension from him. She can see it melting away, inch by inch, and by the time she’s leaning back, letting his fingers work through her hair one last time, rinsing it free, she can feel enough of him through the bond to reach tentatively through, brushing up against him. 

His fingers pause in her hair, slowing, and he glances down at her where she’s almost entirely submerged in the water, only face and knees poking out of the surface now clouded with fragrant soap. She just strokes over his thigh under palm where she’s stretched between his legs and nudges him until he follows her back down the thread between them. 

Closing her eyes, she opens a little room for them, an antechamber that’s all soft caresses and whispers, serenity in the peace of being together mentally, physically. She doesn’t have to nudge him this time, he follows her inside, settles in with her and even then, his consciousness has shadows rolling off of it, coiling through the blushed golden mist she settles around them. 

Safe. He’s safe and he’s home and he’s  _ hers _ . 

\--

Later in the darkness of the night, after they’ve managed to make it out of the bath, slow to ease out of the water, they wrap each other in towels, draining the water and rubbing each other dry. Before they even make it out of the room, she’s already pressed a whispered murmur of kisses over his golden brown shoulders, still hot from the lingering effects of the bath.

Padding back into their room, hands loosely hooked together, the quiet calm of their home seems more familiar. She doesn’t like bringing their problems here. It feels wrong to be so unhappy, so fraught with anxiety and depression in the same space they can find such joy and happiness with each other. Her mate’s thumb stroking over the back of her hand grounds her here, in the comfort of his presence.

Once he flares to life the small light on the nightstand, though, she gently eases herself away from him and he releases her gently, letting her drift over to the seat in front of the mirror. She can watch him there, taking up her comb to pick at the knots of her hair before it dries in tangles. 

Her eyes drift over the slope of his shoulders, easing down to the small of his back, lower when he finally lets his towel drop, hanging it across the back of the chair against the wall.  Seeing him in their bed again, wings held loose against his back as he crawls across the mattress before easing down, splayed across the bed with a pillow underneath his head. 

Mor swallows when he spreads open his wings in a lazy stretch before draping them open across the bed to finish drying. For all their strength, the jut of spindly bone flexing through each thick membrane, the heavy, hooked talons protruding at the peak of his wing, smaller, more tightly curved ones gleaming at the tips, there’s a delicacy to them. The way they catch the light even in his darkness, the thinner spots where she can see the gentle push of veins through the membrane. She knows every inch of her mate but it’s sometimes easy to forget just how impressive his wings are.

His shadows dance faintly across his bare skin, the heavy shade of the single light gliding over the dip of his spine, the small of his back and the backs of his thighs.  She takes her time taking him in, knowing he’s well aware of the journey of her eyes.  For all she missed his physical company,  _ seeing _ him in their bed with his wings stretched out before her sends the last bit of anxiety easing away. 

He’s half asleep though, when she finally sets her comb down, sweeps her hair over her shoulders and unknots her towel, draping it over the stool.  Stirring slightly when the mattress shifts under her knees, he lifts his head only slightly, cracking open one eye to find her crawling up the bed at his feet until she’s straddling his hips. 

A low, curious rumble of his chest.  _ What are you doing _ ? 

She just smiles faintly, leaning over to kiss the nape of his neck, hands smoothing up his spine.  _ Wait and find out _ . 

His skin is still faintly damp, soft and freshly clean and she soothes over the swells of muscle in his back, pausing to tend to the lingering spots of tension in his shoulders. He lets out the slightest noise with his breath because it’s different this time. In the bath it’s lazy, careful and slow in billowing steam. Here it’s indulgent, filled with suggestion at where her hands might go next. 

“Az,” she murmurs against the back of his neck, the first real words between them since they stepped into the bath to begin with. Her fingers sink lower on his back, to his shoulder blades, just close enough to the heavy joint breaking away from his back that he knows what she’s asking. 

His wings stretch the slightest bit wider and she sees it for the invitation it is. 

The first brush of her fingers along the soft membrane has him drawing in a slow breath as if to attempt to control himself at the indulgent press of her fingers across him. 

She draws back slightly to watch him, watch his head turned sideways against the bed, the part of his lips as she lets her hand drift along the top arc of his wing, over the bone and muscle there.  He’s always sensitive but… his breath catches when she rubs faintly across the warm membrane that trembles slightly under her touch. 

Through the bond, she can already feel heat flushing through him.

It’s been weeks since they’ve been together, and the time adds up.  Going for so long without being touched, without the casual reassurance of physical contact is one thing. His wings are entirely another. He guards them with his life, with every shred of sanity in his body and she knows that this is the first time  _ anything _ has touched them since they were together last. 

That thought alone has her stroking him harder, dancing a little closer to the spot she knows will ruin him. The spot that while they’re together, joined, and she’s right on the edge, all she has to do is reach over his shoulder to rub in steady, pulsing strokes and he’s climaxing in her. 

“ _ Morrigan _ ,” he grates out, fingers tightening in the sheets, wings snapped out tight, nearly shaking. 

Heat floods between her legs at her name. The way he says it, a prayer, a promise, a warning all in one. 

“Mmhhmm?”  A smile pulls at her lips when she bends, brushes a light kiss just between his shoulder blades, inching over to nuzzle into the taut membrane of his wing.  Azriel rarely makes noise in bed but he lets out the barest groan when her lips brush across him, exhales harshly, hips shifting against the mattress when her tongue dips out against him. 

He doesn’t say anything, can’t when she’s stretching her hand to roam over his opposite wing, stroking slowly over the places she knows he likes.

“I missed you Azriel,” she murmurs, ducks over to kiss his shoulder, over to the nape of his neck.  “I missed your voice.” Her lips brush his jaw. “Your thoughts through the bond.” A nuzzle against his neck. “The way you say my name.” He sucks in a breath at that, and her fingers find a spot that has his jaw feathering. “I missed your hands, Azriel.” She’s growing breathless, rubbing more insistently at him, wanting him to break for her, to let out the noises she knows he’s holding back. “And your wings.” His eyes are closed, lost in the sound of her voice, the feel of her hands on him and she ducks again, this time to draw his ear between her teeth. She speaks lower this time, pointedly. “Your cock.” 

He growls that time, and the satisfaction of earning a reaction out of his customary silence sends a pulse of heat throbbing between her thighs.

“Morrigan,” he hisses, hips shifting again, trying to push up, to flip them because she rolls her hips slightly against him and if he can’t scent her arousal already, he can surely feel it. But she just gently pushes him back down. 

“Not yet,” she murmurs, asks him.  Her next stroke over his wing, faster this time, has him letting out a snarl, burying his face in the pillow in front of him.

She works him until he’s shifting steadily under her, pressing slowly into the mattress in a steady rock.  Until his heart pounds through the bond and he’s biting back groans.  Usually he’ll insist that he pleasure her first, that he bring her to her peak before they’re joined. Rarer are the times when he doesn’t protest at letting her take care of him.

Each steady caress, circle of the pads of her fingers over the membrane of his wing has her intoxicated with the reactions she can wring from him. He pants heavily if she rubs here, lets out the barest groan if she repeats the motion slightly farther in on the dark arc before her. And when she lightly drags a nail in a lazy trail down his trembling wing, he growls outright, drops out a curse, sometimes her name.

She  _ wants _ him and can feel that equal desire, the pleasure all wrapped up in a cry for  _ more _ through the bond. Vague flashes of want hit her, that he wants to hear her moan for him, a sound he’s missed all these weeks. Wants her against him, against his chest, her breasts in his hands and the scent of her skin wrapping around him.  The way she grasps at his hair while he has his head between her thighs, her nails scraping against his back when he finally rises up her body, and above all, the unhinged need to be together, to be  _ in _ her.

His desire threads through hers in a tide of amorphous  _ want _ . And finally, when his shoulders are tight and he’s swallowing hard through his heavy breaths, Azriel grates out her name again, more desperate this time. “Not like this,” he murmurs, panting as she watches his face, eyes slipped shut. “ _ Morrigan _ .” 

Her fingers slow and this time when he rises, she lets him, lifting onto her knees long enough for him to tuck his wings in, roll over. 

She expects him to push her back, cradle her and let her fall back onto the mattress, but he wraps his arms around her and she can see where he’s already fully hard and ready for her. 

Her mouth goes dry.  

He pulls her against him, settling her thighs around his hips so they’re cradled together, chest to chest, eye to eye. His pupils are wide and dark and when he looks at her, she swears she can feel herself stripped down her pulse, the air between them.

“Like this?” she asks, grinding slowly against him, never breaking eye contact. His eyes flicker with hunger, hands smoothing along her back, down to her hips, and she knows he can feel just how wet she is against him because he slides his hands down farther to cup her backside, pulling her into a smooth motion against him.

“Like this,” he growls, urging her up slightly, just enough for her to reach between them, positioning him.  Glancing down, to where she’s resting over him, she starts to slide down, feeling him nudge just slightly into her.  “Look at me.”

Mor’s eyes snap back up to his and she pauses, taking in the sheer hunger in his eyes. 

He seems to sense her question because he leans forwards, just enough that their lips brush against each other when he says, “I want to see just how much you’ve missed me.”

Mor resists letting out a moan even at just that, pulls back slightly and this time when he looks at her, she can’t see anything but him. Can only feel his breath faintly panting against hers, the rise and fall of his chest, his eyes usually beautifully hazel now dark and wanting, his lips slightly parted, and the broad spread of his palms around her hips as he slowly pulls her down onto him. 

She holds his eyes the whole while as he fills her, lips parting, chin tipping slightly up at the intensity of it, the overwhelming satisfaction of him filling her. It’s been so long that she lets out a little cry when she’s fully seated on him, barely even aware of her nails digging into his shoulders.  When she sees him swallow, breath catching in his throat at the feel of her around him, she rolls her hips slightly against his. 

It feels achingly  _ right  _ to be together like this again, the intensity in his eyes speaking to the other part of her she tries to ignore while he’s away.  Sometimes she feels sick without the safety and assurance of him nearby. Other times she’s alone in their bed and aching with want and only her own hand to suffice as her mate’s calloused fingers… his cock. 

“Is that what you did while I was away?” he murmurs, only breaks eye contact when his eyes flicker down to his lips. The air between them feels tight, the heat of his body, his wings arcing around them filling the room.

She grinds down onto him in slow, steady rolls, feeling him press up into her, the delicious stretch of him filling her. When she arches far enough, grinding down so he hits her clit, her lips drop farther open. His nostrils flare and his hips rise higher into hers, more insistent.

“Did you touch yourself while I was away, Morrigan?” he murmurs, lower this time. And even though it’s impossible that anyone else would hear what he’s saying, he says it quiet enough that she knows, can  _ feel _ , that his words are only for her. 

She nods, eyes slipping shut, grip tightening on his shoulders. She can’t think around the feel of him in her, can only surrender to everything she has to give him, everything barrelling down the bond that he wants to give to her. 

His face comes closer, hand sliding up her back, reverently, hooking over her bare shoulder.  “What did you think about?” He can’t seem to resist leaning forwards, then, kissing the corner of her mouth. He’s this composed is beyond her. She can barely catch her thoughts through the haze of need and pleasure and she  _ wants  _ him to lose some of that control he holds so close.  Wants to hear him moan for her.

“Your hands-” she gets out, voice breathy. “I missed your hands,” the words slip out quickly, in a stream before she can stop them. “I thought about your voice. What you would be-” she closes her eyes, nails digging into his skin when he pulls her hips down to his, thrusting up and she can’t breathe for a moment. “What you’d be telling me to do.” 

He growls, leans in to nip at her ear. “And what was I telling you to do to yourself?” 

She draws in a low breath. “Lick myself off my fingers. Rub my clit and tease me the way you do.”

Approval hums through him, but she knows he’s getting closer. The  _ need _ to have him falling apart for her overwhelms everything in her and she pulls back enough to hold his face, thumbs just in front of his ears and her fingers splayed in her hair so he won’t,  _ can’t _ look away.  “I thought about your tongue and what you taste like after you’ve had your head between my thighs.” His eyes flash in desire, flashing to the nearest memory of just that. “I thought about what I wanted to do when I first saw you again. Push you into a chair and take your cock in my mouth.” 

He groans at that, eyes slipping shut, but she digs her fingers into the damp nape of his neck. “Look at me, Azriel.” 

She’s rarely demanding like this in bed, and his eyes snap back open to hers, lips parted.

“I thought about your fingers in me while I got myself off. Closed my eyes and imagined you bending me over your desk and fucking me until I couldn’t even moan the way you like me to.” 

That’s what snaps him. He snarls and tightens his grip around her back, pushing them both over until she’s on her back on the mattress, legs still hooked around his waist. 

Without her movements against him, he withdraws only to slam back into her, the slick noises between them bringing heat to her cheeks. 

“ _ Azriel _ \--” 

He growls against her throat and she knows that she won’t have the words to speak anymore. That  _ he _ won’t have the words to speak. 

The elbow braced next to her head sinks into the mattress, her legs tightening around his waist as he fucks her, buries his face in her neck, breath hot against her skin.  She scrabbles for purchase over his back and shoulders, nails raking, leaving red lines in their wake.

She doesn’t even see his free hand move until it’s between her thighs and then she’s gasping, crying out at the sudden pressure throbbing through her clit as he rubs over her in quick, tight circles in the way he knows will ruin her.

“Az, I can’t--I just-” she cries, arching off the bed. She can feel the sharp edge of his own climax nearing through the bond and doesn’t want to finish first, wants it to be together in a way it hasn’t been in so many weeks.  “Az please-” she clutches at his hair, nails digging into the nape of his neck. “Come with me.” 

He doesn’t pause, but slows his fingers slightly between her thighs. “ _ Morrigan _ .” Her name falls out roughly, low and almost guttural. 

“Look at me,” she murmurs, tugs on his hair.  “Az-” 

He lifts his chin, and when his eyes fasten on hers, deep and dark and half glazed over, her lips fall open and she lets out a whimper because even though the bond is open, even though she can feel his desire, his need, throbbing through him, she can see that urgency reflected in his eyes. 

He pulls back, rolls his hips entirely into her, never releasing her gaze, and growls at the pleasure he sees there. Looking at him like this, seeing every burst of taut wanting, craving for  _ more _ as he buries himself inside her. She can feel the tension in his limbs, the arm he has braced next to her head, his back with every thrust.  

She doesn’t realize his fingers have stopped moving on her until he starts again, pressing two fingers over her clit and she jolts against him, gasping.

“Is this what you want?” he murmurs.

She just nods, too far gone to say anything, and reaches up to kiss him, his tongue pressing into her mouth, hot and warm, like he can’t help but taste her.

He starts to lose his rhythm slightly, and she tugs him forward with her heels digging into his ass. “Fuck, Mor, I-” 

She just murmurs his name again, urging him on, because she’s so close and he’s not teasing her anymore, not doing anything less than working her higher and higher and higher and--

His name again, through a quick, panting breath, clutching his shoulders.

His fingers slide over her again, circle her quickly and she’s arching against him, nails digging into his shoulders as she shatters, gives a low cry at the throbs of pleasure tearing through her.

She feels him groan against her, following her over the edge, slowing, shuddering against her at his own pleasure seizing him. 

She’s still limp with the aftermath of her own climax, panting, when he nuzzles into her neck, kisses the skin under his lips.

“Az,” she murmurs, clinging to him. “Azriel.”  She only releases him long enough for him to slide out of her, roll off of her, and then she’s curling into his side, wrapping her arm over his chest, hitching her leg over his. At other times, he might huff a breath of amusement, but he seems just as content to have her in his arms tonight too. 

She protests when he lifts an arm away from her, but it’s only enough to pull a cloth from a pocket realm. It’s barely a few moments of cleaning herself up before she’s curling back into him, pressing a thanks through the bond, now sprawled open between them. 

After a few moments of him stroking her back, contentment flooding through her, relishing in the feel of him, the intimacy of having him back, of having her mind open to him again, her fingers tracing idly over a scar just over his ribs, she props herself up to look at him more fully. “I love you,” she says, and at the flicker in his eyes, she knows he can hear her for all she means. _ I love you. I missed you. I was worried about you.  I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like if you didn’t come back. Or if I didn’t come back. I wanted you and you weren’t here for me and I wasn’t there for you… I don’t want you to leave again. _

He gives a slight breath, strokes his thumb over her back.  She knows what he’s going to say before he says it, knows what his, in turn, means.   _ I’m sorry I had to leave. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you when you needed me. I want to talk to you about what happened but I don’t want to say it. I love you and I’d do anything to stay here with you instead of leaving again.  _ “I love you too, Morrigan.” 

She knows their love will always be this conversation. For as long as they hold their positions in this court, they’ll say this to each other. But one day… someday she knows she’s going to hear those words.

And they won’t be an apology. 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment! Or if you're so inclined, join me in my trashcan on [tumblr](http://pterodactylichexameter.tumblr.com)


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